


Decennial

by itsyourownpersonaljesus



Category: Geography (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: American Revolution, Angst, But only a little, Fluff, FrUK, French Revolution, Gay Panic, Glorious Revolution, Hurt/Comfort, Imperialism, Injury, Internalized Homophobia, Just a little tho, Louis XIV - Freeform, M/M, Mentioned at least - Freeform, Mild Blood, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Religion, Religious Conflict, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Timeline What Timeline, as we continue ya know, britain has the world's biggest ego, britain is oblivious, france has the world's second biggest ego, france is a smug bastard, fruk reminds me too much of hetalia, i guess, mentions of:, oh yeah we’re getting there, personally i like Brance, slowly but surely, so far - Freeform, some actual research, they deserve each other, this is britain and france after all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21752386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsyourownpersonaljesus/pseuds/itsyourownpersonaljesus
Summary: Britain and France have known each other for many long and terrible centuries. Their's is a relationship that has developed from that of bitter enemies, to on and off friends, to something...even more.Though their lives are filled with war and violence, they find some solace in the arms of one another over the years.tldr this is my excuse to write shameless brance slow burn and dump historical references on y'all.
Relationships: England & France (Anthropomorphic), England/France (Anthropomorphic), France & United Kingdom (Anthropomorphic), France/United Kingdom (Anthropomorphic)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 47





	1. 1794

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the Reign of Terror, right before the start of a very certain set of wars involving someone who's name rhymes with Shapoleon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> french translations @ the bottom

The Channel was cold this evening, as it often was in November, and Britain failed to suppress a shiver as he stared across the ink black ocean. His modest rowboat rests on the rocky beach next to him, the waves lapping against the dark wood, dyeing it even darker. His lantern is set on a larger rock along the beach, its soft glow reaching all the way across to the other shore. 

He doesn’t know how long he’ll be waiting here, so he pulls out his pipe, packs it, and lights it with a match that struggles to stay alight in the strong sea breeze. He breathes in the bitter taste of tobacco, the glow illuminating his face for a moment as his thoughts slip into musings of the reason he was freezing his arse off in the middle of a cold winter night on the shore of the English Channel: France. 

Britain’s relationship with France was complicated, to say the least. 

He hated France, obviously. In fact, he hated France with such a burning intensity that he hardly knew who he was without it. The world itself _expected_ them to be at war, their mutual disdain so painfully obvious. After all, who were they without their spiteful resentment for one another?

And from what he could tell, France felt the same way. 

Their recent quarrels had only served to aggravate tensions between them. From Britain’s victory in the Seven Years War and his annexation of France’s Canadian colony, to France’s involvement in “America”’s victory against Britain. Now, to no one’s surprise, they were once again locked in conflict, France seemingly insistent on waging a war with all of Europe while sustaining a massive societal upheaval. Honestly, Britain has no idea how he was managing it. 

Not only was France _waging_ battles across the continent, he was _winning_ them too; the taste of defeat still burned on Britain’s tongue. It was as impressive as it was irritating. 

Despite all of this, though, the two have been able to achieve civil conversation, even amicable discussion at times. For all they fought, and bickered, and warred, there had always been _something_ between them Britain couldn’t seem to be able to describe, no matter how hard he tried to. 

Over the tens of decades they’d known each other, Britain could remember several instances that had been strangely peaceful. Moments when the two of them were alone together, away from the eyes and expectations of others, where they could share the thoughts that would have seemed out of place anywhere else. Where their bitter rivalry turned away from deadly conflict and toward friendly teasing, and where compliments were shared genuinely, albeit rarely. In these moments, they nearly resembled close friends; they knew each other well enough, after all. 

Britain couldn’t think of a single country that knew him as well as the one he’d spent his entire life fighting, as ironic as it was. Who could know him better?

Britain had seen the plague tear through the known world, had fought in countless wars, remembered the fall of Constantinople and the discovery of an entirely new world. He had seen nations rise and fall, and while many others have seen the same, only France had been right next to him through all of it. Whether or not they were on opposite sides of the battlefield. 

For most of their lives, they communicated sporadically by letters about either trade policies or war, with the occasional opinion on current events. But that changed a little over a century ago, when France suggested they meet in person, not to discuss trade or treaty, but just to talk. And Britain had agreed, though he still doesn’t know why. 

They met on the English Channel back in 1674 and it hadn’t gone horribly, against all expectations. So they met again ten years later, and again, and now it had been a hundred and twenty years and Britain found himself _almost_ looking forward to the fourth year of every decade, though he would never admit it. 

It was nice to talk to the other nation without arguments or armed conflict. It was one of their unspoken rules, along with no boasting or gloating which they were both rather prone to. Strangely enough, however, Britain found that he, occasionally, _enjoyed_ not arguing with France, and that the two of them had a lot more in common than Britain would ever have expected. 

As they continued to meet, France started to bring food or wine, more often both, as Britain would bring a book to read or recommend, perhaps a story to share with the other. Despite appearances, France seemed to enjoy the stories Britain told, which never failed to inflate his ego a bit, just as Britain had always admired France’s art and cuisine. Something about the common ground they’d found made it easier for Britain to admit that, to let their rivalry simmer on the back burner instead of boil at the forefront of his mind. 

As much as he hated it, Britain didn’t know where this conflict with France was headed, nor how long it would last. He would fight until the bitter end, of course, he _was_ the Great British Empire. Still, he hoped it wouldn’t drag on terribly long. His debt was growing and seeing what debt had done to France’s government didn’t exactly inspire hope for a peaceful future. He had never been awfully fond of revolutions. 

Their last meeting had been a year after the final peace had been settled after the “successful” revolution in America. His defeat had been both humiliating and infuriating and it wouldn’t have happened if France hadn’t decided to help “America” gain independence just to spite him. France gained nothing from that war other than bragging rights and a revolution of his own. But, Britain had to admit that seeing France on the battlefield was always strangely alluring. The country was so...driven, so passionate. He threw his whole self into everything he did. Every war with France, every battle, had an infectious energy that had Britain finding thrills in the fight that he didn’t usually indulge in. It made victory taste all the sweeter while defeat lingered on his tongue long after. Fighting France was always so... satisfying.

Neither of them had said much when they met back in 1784, Britain was still resentful after the loss of his most profitable colony and France was far too smug to be expected to say anything that wouldn’t further antagonize Britain. For the hours they spent together, Britain had read silently by the lantern light while France had laid back in his boat and closed his eyes, content to relax in their shared time. They split a bottle of wine France had brought with him. One of his better wines, though that wasn’t a fair comparison considering that there was hardly a bad bottle of wine in the whole of France, none that he would ever let see the light of day, at least. It had been a rich red wine that went down smoothly and, after a glass and a half, quieted Britain’s anger and resentment with its own comfortable warmth. 

When he had looked at France that night, illuminated by the soft, flickering light and seemingly at peace had ignited another warm feeling in him that couldn’t be blamed on the wine. 

Once, long ago, he had visited France’s capital, back when it had still been Paris. It was an early autumn evening, before the weather became unbearably cold and just as the leaves were starting to turn. Neither Britain nor France made a habit of visiting within each other’s borders, except in times of war. Publicly, Britain would never admit that France’s country was quite beautiful, magnificent even. And the city of Paris on that autumn evening was simply incredible to behold, the orange light of the setting sun reflecting off the Seine and alighting the leaves, the city glowed. 

It was so much more beautiful than London was at this time of year, the fog and rain making the city dull and dreary while Paris remained full of light, vibrant. France had shared with him once, though, back in the 17th century, that he found the early morning London fog to be wondrously alluring in ways that could not be described by mere words, that is was no wonder Britain had so many great writers in a land so gorgeously eerie. That had touched Britain unexpectedly, such a genuine compliment from someone he had considered his enemy for so long. It was a conversation he continued to look back on with fondness, even as conflict between them pressed on. 

That night in 1784, Britain could see the same beauty he saw in Paris that evening in the face of the person in front of him, and that warm feeling continued to grow until it burned like fire in his veins and made his heart stutter in his chest. It was something he felt every time he met France on the battlefield and the breath was stolen from his lungs because France was always so... beautiful. And suddenly, the book he had been reading didn’t seem half as interesting as it once had. Instead, his gaze was captured and held by the nation lying peacefully in the boat beside him. A nation that knew him better than any other, had seen him through the best and worst moments in his history, as he had seen France’s.

Britain felt, all of a sudden, that he wouldn’t mind being closer to France, in a more _intimate_ way. He still despised France, but, in that moment, the other country had almost seemed...desirable. Which was absurd, of course, and neither of them would ever do something as foolish as...

Britain felt his cheeks warm at the thought, though he would later blame it on the alcohol. 

“You are staring, mon ami.” A voice broke him from his musings. France was regarding him with lidded eyes and a knowing smile. As Britain internally floundered for the right words to say to assuage all potential suspicion, he saw France’s eyes flicker briefly down before looking back up, sparkling in the low light and giving Britain the distinct impression that the other was thinking less than innocent, or, for that matter, _Catholic_ , thoughts at the moment. 

Britain cleared his throat and tore his gaze away, “It was an accident, I was simply lost in thought for a moment.” He amended finally, though the smirk did not drop from France’s face. 

When they eventually parted ways later that night, Britain rowed himself back to the English shore, unable to get France’s astute gaze out of his mind, nor his utterance of “mon ami”. My friend. Did France really consider Britain a friend or was it simply a mistake? A placeholder until a more suitable term was found to describe their relationship? Or was it purposefully ironic to call Britain a friend? They were anything but, right? He _hoped_ it was because France felt the same strange feeling Britain had; that look France gave him had to have meant something after all. Unless Britain was reading into it.

He could just be reading into it.

It was in the past now, Britain supposed, as it was again time for them to meet outside of the war they were currently fighting. Back in 1786, maybe it was ‘87, Britain had picked up a gift for France. A scarf. Small and inane but not entirely devoid of meaning. He’d seen it in the window of one of the high-end shops in London in the midst of Spring. Britain wasn’t really one for fashion statements, but there was something incredibly striking about it.

It was a stunning rich scarlet made of the finest silk money could buy, and when he asked the kind shopkeeper to take it down for him, he found it was feather-light and soft as freshly fallen snow. The colors shone a deep red that spoke of blood. Blood used to make promises and pacts. Blood spilt between them. The blood in his history and the blood in France’s. Yet, the fabric whispered across his palm like the softly voiced confessions of finding beauty in an enemy’s territory.

He bought a scarf for France.

The price was an inconsequential dent in his centuries of savings, but the potential blow to his dignity might come at a much higher cost.

The scarf sat like a stone in his coat pocket as Britain tried to convince himself that this gift wasn’t entirely out of place in the context of their relationship. After all, they _had_ gotten each other small, more impersonal gifts before; a new tea Britain wanted to share, a bottle of champagne for celebratory purposes, a book the other would enjoy, a new pastry France discovered. But nothing like this. Nothing so personal.

This wasn’t a bad idea...Was it?

He supposed he could always keep the scarf and proceed as normal, then he could go home and throw the scarf into some deep, unknown corner of his attic, never to be seen again. But, as much as he wanted to do that, a larger part of him felt like that was a little too similar to giving up and if there was one thing the British Empire hated, it was giving up. Besides, maybe it was alright to show France that he didn’t entirely hate him all of the time.

This was getting complicated.

Britain exhaled a puff of smoke and trained his eyes on the sky, watching stars blink in and out of existence while clouds rolled overhead. The moon was bright tonight and it cast a subtle, luminous glow over the calm waters.

Britain was tempted to pull out his notebook to record the scene with words and would have if not for the pinprick of light that flickered to life across the Channel; a sure sign France was preparing to start his voyage.

Britain took one last long drag from his pipe before doing the same.

The cold nipped at his face and hands and his arms burned with exertion as he rowed, but soon enough he heard the telltale splashes of another boat approaching.

He looked back briefly in order to maneuver himself beside France without crashing into him, and while he saw France do the same, their eyes did not meet. This was unusual.

Britain stuck his paddles in the water, slowing his speed even more as his boat slid up to France’s. They both remained silent as they watched their slightly precarious situation with bated breath and when it became apparent that the ocean would permit them to stay, Britain sighed heavily and felt some of the tension bleed from his shoulders. He saw France’s posture in a similar way.

Britain set his oars in the hull of his boat at the same time he heard France’s clatter solidly in the boat next to him. They each had their oil lanterns on the spare benches of their two-person rowboats, creating a halo of dim golden light around them. With Britain facing the English shore and France facing the French shore they faced each other on the diagonal. It was perfect for them, removing the pressure and intimacy of any more formal arrangement.

The air on the Channel water was colder than that on the shore and Britain adjusted his coat, feeling his notebook pressed against his ribs in his inner pocket, and the scarf sitting heavily against his hip.

Though he had relaxed slightly, Britain still remained rigidly upright, anxiety keeping him rooted to the bench and his back straight. Conversely, France had shifted off his seat and now lay in the hull of his boat, his head resting against the bench he had previously been seated on. It was something Britain was plenty familiar with; France liked to relax. He lived in the moment, sometimes going as far as to bring a pillow and blanket with him, as though he really might sleep there, in an uncomfortable wooden rowboat, in the middle of the ocean. It has surprised Britain on many occasions, how easy it seemed to be for France to appear comfortable. France could be lying on a bed of nails and make it seem as though the King himself had given up his bed for France. A part of Britain was jealous of this seemingly innate ability, he always looked so uptight next to France.

Looking at France now though, Britain could see a crease in his brow, a slight downward turn of his mouth that indicated a discomfort in the other country that Britain did not often see.

Even in battles France was losing, Britain didn’t see such blatant discomfort, more frustration and anger. It had been centuries since Britain had seen France in so much...pain. His breaths were visibly short and stilted and he held himself almost gingerly as he laid back. It was subtle, sure, but obvious to someone who knew France as well as Britain did.

As far as Britain could tell, France hadn’t brought anything with him either, which was also highly unusual, considering how the other often insisted on creating a certain “atmosphère” as he put it. Usually the “atmosphère” France wanted to create included food and wine, not that Britain was necessarily complaining. Nonetheless, it was odd for France to come bearing nothing just as it was odd for him to be visibly pained and out of breath.

“Are you alright, France?” Britain asked hesitantly, after what seemed like an eternity of silence stretched between them.

At the sound of Britain’s voice, France’s eyes opened sluggishly, exhaustion lining them as he turned a focused yet tired gaze on his neighbor.

He started to take a deep breath before likely thinking better of it and said to Britain, in a raspy, whisper of his former voice, “Oui, mon ami, you do not have to worry. I am fine.”

Britain bristled at the implication that he would ever _worry_ about _France_ of all countries, but he couldn’t deny that a part of him _was_ worried about France. A part of him that felt suspiciously similar to the part of him that had thought France was rather stunning a decade ago, and the part of him that had felt compelled to buy the scarf that still rests in his coat pocket. The part of him that cares an awful lot about France without Britain’s express permission.

It was that same part of him that compelled him to say, “France, anyone who knows anything would know that you are not fine, and I am not _worried_ about you, merely _concerned_ for your well being.”

“Britain, there are many intricacies in English which I do not understand, but one thing I do know is that ‘worried’ and ‘concerned’ mean the same thing.” France replied smoothly, falling easily into their typical back and forth for a moment before his expression was serious again, “But, it is truly nothing you need to be ‘concerned’ about.”

Those were France’s words, and Britain was never one to pry excessively in the other’s business, but after even that short conversation, France’s breathing appeared strained and though he had closed his eyes again, his expression was pinched in pain. Therefore, even though France had told Britain not to be concerned, Britain was. It was this concern that had Britain do something he never would have seen himself doing otherwise: he reached out.

By nature, Britain was drawn to solitude. He was an island nation after all, and he had never connected very well to his European peers. Even in something as supposedly simple as religion, he differed from the other nations. He had gone as far as to create his very own church just to avoid the restrictions of Catholicism. He never reached out, it wasn’t in his nature.

And yet, here he was, resting his hand on France’s, a country he had long considered his exact opposite. Britain wordlessly took France’s hand into his own two as France looked at him in confusion, wanting answers that Britain honestly didn’t have. As he turned the other country’s hand over in his, he noticed that the palm of France’s hand was rough and calloused in some areas, while raw and blistered in others, and when the sensitive skin was exposed to the cold night air, France inhaled sharply. Britain couldn’t blame him, it looked painful; it was a wonder he could even hold the oars of his boat.

As Britain stared at the hand he held in his, he spoke quietly, almost inaudibly, if not for the calm sea that night, “I know that we are not quite friends, and I know that, if our situations were reversed, I would be reluctant to share such weakness with you, lest you use it against me in the future. However, France, seeing you in such a state causes my heart to ache for reasons I cannot fathom.” Britain exhaled shakily, “My curiosity is a great beast that will not be sated without knowing what could have possibly exhausted the formidable France to such a degree.”

When Britain looked up, France was staring at him with a tired smile and affectionate eyes before he said, in an airy voice, “Well, Bretagne, who else would be capable of it, but myself?”

France was quiet for a bit after that statement, his gaze following a distant point on the horizon. Britain remained silent as well, waiting for elaboration without wanting to push.

“Revolutions, I have found,” France broke the silence once again, “Are quite an exhausting endeavor.”

Ah. The Revolution. Of course that was the source of France’s distress, could Britain really haven been so dense as to let it slip his mind?

Never before had Britain heard of a more gruesome or violent revolution as the one that has been taking up arms in Paris for the last five years.

Britain had received news of terror’s reign over the city after the death of the French king. The radical revolutionaries occupying the city were nearly giddy in sending even the most mild of dissenters to the guillotine. Even women and children were not safe from the paranoia of an illegitimate regime. When papers reported the death of that insane Robspierre fellow, Britain could only feel relieved, though now France’s government lacked any strong central command.

If he were to be honest, Britain didn’t want France to be a republic. It would feel too...lonely.

He stared at their interlocked hands and said, with a mixture of exasperation, fondness, and concern, “Well, I could have told you that.”

France let out a chuckle at that, one that lingered on his face as he sat up and leaned forward. Britain watched France’s movements curiously, his thumb rubbing small circles on France’s wrist.

In the hull of his boat, France was significantly shorter than Britain, but closer as well, such that they were nearly parallel to each other and Britain’s breath seized in his throat.

France looked at Britain, his eyes searching Britain’s face for...something. His left hand came up to cup Britain’s cheek and time seemed to stop altogether.

France’s hand was incredibly warm, impossibly so, given the cold winter air that surrounded them; it distracted Britain, but he didn’t dare look away. Something about France’s gaze left him feeling flayed open and intricately examined. He felt...vulnerable.

An eternity passed.

An eternity that Britain could relive a hundred times and never tire of.

An eternity that Britain wanted to savor for the rest of his existence, however long that may be.

An eternity that made him realize that he might be–

“I have so terribly missed you, Bretagne.” France’s whispered confession broke their moment outside of time.

Britain stared at France dumbfounded for a brief instance before he found the words to respond. “I have missed you as well, France; something I never would have thought possible.”

France let out a breath of laughter, “Well I’ve always been good at achieving the impossible.”

“Like at Fleurs?”

“Exactement.” France replied, eyes shining.

Britain had seen that expression before. When France won a battle, his whole face lit up, and that pure joy of victory shone through his entire self. It was as infectious as it was captivating. It hardly even felt as though he had lost that battle.

He was losing this war, it became more clear with every French victory and every British loss. But when he looked into France’s eyes that night, it felt like he was only one key strategic move from victory. He just needed a few more minutes to observe the board. 

“France, I–” Britain broke off, realizing he couldn’t find the words to define the indescribable _something_ that clawed at his throat and begged to be released. “I,” he tried again, but it seemed that the ever present, extensive vocabulary of his own language escaped him. 

He stated, unfocused, until something caught his eye and derailed his train of thought. 

“By God France, what happened to your neck?!” Britain exclaimed, staring aghast at France’s neck, which was hastily bandaged and stained through with blood. 

Immediately, as though possessed, his hands moved to the other’s neck, holding it gently with his fingers while using his thumbs to coax France’s jaw upwards so he could observe more clearly the seemingly egregious injury. France made a noise of protest, but when it cracked and died in his throat, he appeared to resign to his fate. 

Britain shifted the weight of France’s head to his left hand and used his right to peel back what looked to be an old shirt cloth that had been ripped and repurposed to get a look at the wound underneath. 

He glanced at France briefly before going any further, only to find the other gazing at him intently; discomfort, pain, and...something else in his expression. Embarrassment, maybe? Or something closer to apprehension? Even mistrust? As though Britain might really use this vulnerable position to his own advantage. Or as though someone else had already done so. 

Their eyes met for only the briefest of moments, but it had Britain mentally backpedaling and kicking himself for being so bold. 

Before Britain could so much as utter and apology, however, France leaned more heavily into Britain’s hand and closed his eyes with a silent sigh, consenting to let Britain examine the injury that had escaped his notice all night. 

With unsure movements, Britain slowly pulled the old, worn cloth away from the red, inflamed skin around the injury. It was mostly scabbed over, although there were still some areas that bled sluggishly. From what Britain could see, the laceration itself was very deep, almost impossibly so, and made its way around the entirety of France’s neck in a near perfect circle. 

As Britain’s hand got closer to the wound itself, France let out what Britain could only really describe as a whimper, though Britain could hardly recall ever hearing such a sound from France. It made a pang of guilt ring through his core, which was exceedingly odd because he _was_ the Great British Empire and he couldn’t remember more than two or three instances of guilt through his entire life. He _certainly_ hadn’t ever felt guilt for causing _France_ any amount of pain or grief before. They hurt each other all the time. They were constantly at war. What made this any different?

Britain removed his hand from France’s neck, letting the bandages fall back into place and resting his hand on France’s shoulder. 

“What...happened?” Britain asked aloud, though he feared he already knew the answer. 

France’s expression was unreadable but for the deep rooted, unshakable exhaustion in his eyes. Britain honestly wasn’t sure whether France was looking at him or staring through him. It was unsettling. 

At long length, France spoke the words Britain knew were coming, yet feared all the same: “It was the will of the guillotine.”

Britain flinched slightly at the words, but France’s thousand yard stare was unyielding.

The English country swallowed hard, “I’m–”

“Don’t say you’re sorry Angleterre. Don’t lie to me.” France said firmly, gaze brought back into focus as he regarded Britain. 

Britain bristled, “Don’t call me that. You know I’m more than that now.”

France’s eyes softened and his shoulders relaxed a bit, tension bleeding from his body. He leaned back, distancing himself from Britain, “C’est vrai.” He breathed, “Desolé, Grande Bretagne.” France rooted around in his coat and sighed when he found what he was looking for: a store of tobacco and paper with which to roll it.

Britain looked on with passive interest as France prepared his tobacco fix, his mind alight with a nervous sort of energy that compelled him to do or say something, anything, but refused to give him the slightest clue as to what he should be doing or saying.

France reached over to open the lantern that sat on the bench beside him and lit his freshly rolled cigarette with the flame therein. He closed his eyes and took a long drag before coughing it out roughly. Britain winced in sympathy.

“Have you given up the pipe then?” Britain asked, attempting to strike up amicable conversation once again.

France hummed, “Perhaps. This new _tobacco picado_ Espagne has come up with really is quite excellent.” France coughed again, “Who can say though? We cannot know our futures.”

Britain nodded his assent, though, internally, was struck abruptly with the fact that he really _didn’t_ know his future. And he _hated_ that.

If there was one thing Britain feared above all else, it was being caught unawares by the future. Being defeated by something that could have been easily avoided had he only had enough foresight.

A cold breeze blew over the dark waters and France shivered visibly, breaking Britain from his thoughts as France so often did. If Britain could always count on France for one thing, it was his aptitude in distracting Britain from his constant, spiraling thoughts. France kept him in the moment. 

Suddenly, Britain remembered.

_The Scarf._

Frantically, he patted down and dug through his coat to find it, willfully ignoring France’s curious eyes.

He pulled it out with a soft “Aha.” Its color was intense even in the dim light that surrounded them.

“C’est pour toi.” Britain said flippantly, handing the folded garment to France and avoiding eye contact by searching the water below them. “It won’t be much help in the cold, and it certainly won’t protect you from future beheadings, but it may keep a bit of the chill at bay and prevent nosy bastards like me from prying into your business.”

When he felt France take the scarf from his hands, he looked up and saw only the purest of awe and affection in the other’s face. With a shaky inhale, France asked only: “Pourquoi?”

“Je ne sais pas.” Britain replied. He really didn’t know why he had done it, not in any way he could put into words, at least.

France only smiled knowingly at his response and thanked him sincerely before putting the scarf on. 

It looked...beautiful on him.

France was beautiful.

Even now, in the midst of war and revolution, he was beautiful.

And, for the briefest moment, France had looked...happy.

Britain found he wouldn’t mind seeing that more often.

For the hours that followed, they stayed together, France shifting between light sleep and unfocused thought, while Britain had taken out his notebook under the pretense of doing some writing. He didn’t get much done, though, with his thoughts vague and undefined and his eyes stealing occasional glances at his companion.

“Je suis fatigué.” France eventually uttered into the quiet air around them, regarding Britain with half lidded eyes.

“You should rest my friend.” Britain whispered back, afraid that speaking too loudly may shatter the world around them like glass.

France smiled, “As usual, Bretagne, you are right.” As he continued, his expression grew somber, “Though I fear I may not be able to rest for a long while.”

Britain didn’t know what exactly France meant when he said that, but he had a sense of foreboding all the same.

France smiled at Britain once again, but his eyes were resigned, “Thank you, again, Bretagne, for...everything,” France said, and then, quieter, “I’m holding onto hope for our future.”

Our future?

...Who’s?

The world’s? Europe’s? Or France and his?

Britain didn’t get a chance to ask. He wasn’t sure he would have even if their time was infinite.

They switched sides on the way back, Britain facing the French shore and France facing that of England. 

France gathered himself onto the bench and pulled his oars out of the hull of his boat with no small degree of pain written on his face. With one last look at his neighbor, rival, enemy, friend, he said, “À bientôt, Bretagne,” before rowing himself back to his land, his people, his home. 

It was odd, Britain, thought, as he rowed himself back to the rocky shores of England. France had only ever departed by saying “Au revoir”. Goodbye. A country as ‘laissez-faire’ as France knew of time’s fickle nature and avoided making baseless promises by saying they’d see each other again. They couldn’t know that for sure.

What made France so confident this time that they would see each other soon?

Why did it worry Britain so much?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's see if I can remember the french I put in here w/o going back and checking:  
> mon ami: my friend,,, and the most over used french phrase when it comes to any french character lmao  
> oui: yes  
> c'est pour toi: it's for you,,,and if u dont think britain speaks french fite me  
> pourquoi: why  
> Je ne sais pas: I don't know,, just like me while writing this  
> a bientot: see you soon  
> au revoir: goodbye  
> Je suis fatigué: I’m tired  
> C’est vrai: It’s true  
> Désolé: sorry
> 
> also Id be more than happy to answer any questions! I love talking abt these two idiots.
> 
> next chapter we'll be going a little further back in time


	2. 1684

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France shares a bottle of wine with England and reflects on the relationship they have, and what has brought him here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick tidbit, this chapter is set before England becomes part of Great Britain/Britain/the UK/etc. So that’s why France refers to him as ‘angleterre’ and not ‘bretagne’

France stared blankly at the shelves upon shelves of wine in his personal cellar, vintages going back almost two centuries, even if those might not be much good anymore. All of the wines in this cellar had been carefully crafted within his own borders, unique to the regions in which they were created. Of course, he had the odd bottle of Italian laying around, though those weren’t quite as good in his own biased opinion. All of the wines he kept were what he considered to be among the best in the world, and yet they all had the potential to offend his rather volatile companion this evening.

For the first time in his entirely too long life, it was not his intention to offend Angleterre.

France sighed heavily, working his bottom lip between his teeth and rocking back on his heels as he deliberated on what should have been a very simple decision, but was quickly turning into a disaster.

He could certainly rule out his red wines. They always seemed to carry a degree of intimacy between two people and Angleterre was easily scared off in social situations. It was something France had witnessed a number of times before, Angleterre’s brash and stubborn personality all but vanished under the pressure of a more formal arrangement, making him seem nearly apprehensive, or even nervous.

Ironic that, on the battlefield, there was next to nothing that could scare Angleterre away, but he was quick to turn tail when there was a diplomatic dinner he was asked to attend, especially if he was expected to speak. Granted, France didn’t have as much experience with that Angleterre as he did with the unrelenting nature of the other’s army, and it felt strange to spend so long worrying about something as simple as which wine to bring with him, especially for France, who was _more_ than well-versed in the art of wine.

At this rate, France would be late for his rendez-vous with Angleterre, but he felt that it truly _was_ important that his intentions are not misunderstood. They’d only met in this capacity once before and it hadn’t exactly gone _well_. It certainly hadn’t gone well enough to warrant doing it again. France was surprised Angleterre had even agreed to see him once more. He was also a touch relieved, and a bit _glad_ that Angleterre had, to some extent, wanted to see him again.

He tried not to get his hopes up, though, there was no denying that the two of them were still enemies after all. Their brief alliance in the ‘70s had reached its conclusion rather quickly, neither of them adept in fighting on the same side of any war. But, the alliance had given France the opportunity to put forth the idea of the two of them seeing each other, without it coming off as entirely unnatural or suspicious.

He hadn’t wanted them to convene in their usual sense, either. France didn’t want another discussion of trade policies or peace treaties or colonial borders between them, those never ended well anyway. Instead, France wanted a space in which they might be able to know one another, less as the world knew them, and more as they knew themselves. He believed that, to a certain extent, only Angleterre knew France as he truly was, more so than France himself truly knew Angleterre. 

Outside of Angleterre’s colonies and navy and monarchy, his compulsory need to live up to his own reputation, there was an Angleterre that he glimpsed only on the rarest of occasions. It was this Angleterre France wanted to know, and had wanted to know since the late 16th century.

Somewhere between the start of Elizabeth’s reign as queen and Angleterre’s unlikely victory against Espagne’s impressive armada, France’s impression of Angleterre had changed. Or, more accurately, a different feeling had been added to a long held and well established impression of the other. Like he’d added a pinch of spice and a dash of salt to a recipe he’d only ever made a certain way. It was nearly an entirely new meal.

It was an unfortunate and incomprehensible infatuation, but perhaps it was the variety in his kitchen he hadn’t realized he needed.

It was odd, when he thought deeply on the subject, that Angleterre and he were such bitter enemies. They had hardly been a league or two away from one another for what was certainly a thousand years, if it hadn’t been more. That far back though, the memories tend to get fuzzy, and France struggled to think of a time when they might have been friends. All his strongest memories, the ones burned on the back of his eyelids, the ones that fueled a perpetual disdain for the other, were of the many, many long and arduous crusades and campaigns between them.

The handful of years in which they were allied against a common enemy, a miniscule amount of time with lives as long as theirs, had given France a glimpse of what it might be to _not_ be locked in near-constant conflict with Angleterre, though the concept was resoundingly foreign. It seemed to have been strange to Angleterre as well, for when France had invited Angleterre to meet him in 1674, Angleterre had inexplicably agreed.

And even if it hadn’t gone particularly _well_ , it hadn’t been overwhelmingly unpleasant either. It hadn’t caused another war, and Angleterre had even agreed to see him again, when France had presented the idea in a letter earlier this year. If asked why he had waited an entire decade to even so much as mention the fact that they _had_ met up, let alone the concept of doing it again, France would probably say that he doesn’t think he’d be able to tolerate the other any more frequently than that.

As much as he hated Angleterre, he could be sure that Angleterre hated him just as much, if not more so. As far as France knew, Angleterre had never felt anything _but_ hatred for him, though that begged the question of why he had met France in the first place. In any sense, it would be just as insufferable for Angleterre to see France more than once every ten years than it was for France, if not more so. Besides, in their near-immortal lives, a decade was hardly a very significant amount of time.

Though, truthfully, that was not the entirety of it.

More than anything, France was afraid. Afraid of overstepping. Afraid of offending. Afraid that all at once he may lose his one and only opportunity to build _something_ with Angleterre that was worth more than the wars they fought or the battles they won. It was a strange and foreign concept, to be afraid of such things, considering the nature of the relationship he had with Angleterre. Even so, France found himself craving a space where he could just _talk_ to his long time enemy, outside of the world’s expectations. Outside of _their own_ expectations. Was it really so strange to want to talk to the only nation that truly knew him as he knew himself? Maybe he’d never stop fighting Angleterre, hasn’t ever wanted to either, but damn if he wasn’t growing just a bit _tired_ of it.

For better or worse, they were driven to each other. Time and time again they found themselves on the same battlefield. France just hoped that one day, for one instance, it would be for the better.

He sighed and shook his head, there was no point in wondering about the future, not when there was an equally pressing present.

A white wine would certainly suit the evening better. There was also some cause for celebration among them and white wines were far better for that than reds. There may come a day where France dares to share a bottle of red with Angleterre, but for now he selected a fine bottle of Bourgogne blanc from 1671, a wine that he knew was often favored by the French nobility and one that was quite popular among the population of the island nation, considering the amount that was shipped there every year.

He left the cellar with purposeful steps, attempting to shake off any lingering nervous energy with each stair up to the ground floor of his relatively small cottage in Normandy.

It was far more convenient to make the journey to the shore from the small cities in the north than the two day ride from Paris, where he usually resided. He had been in Normandy on business for the past month anyway, so the trip to La Manche wasn’t terribly out of his way, especially considering he had suggested this little outing in the first place.

France grabbed the dark, heavy coat that had been hanging by the door, slipping it on and strolling over to his kitchen to grab two wine glasses and a bottle opener before he could forget. While he was there, he also grabbed a dish towel from his countertop to wrap the glass in, knowing the risks of glass items rolling on hard wooden surfaces. He made his way out to the waiting horse and cart outside. The driver, one Louis Martin, had been kind enough to let him hitch a ride a little farther north, while he himself was taking the long route to the Britannia region, doing deliveries along the way and didn’t seem to mind letting France off at the shore about two hours from the village, for which France was quite grateful.

The journey was pleasant enough, and small talk with M. Martin helped distract France from the lingering trepidation of tonight.

They found themselves along the rocky edge of the northern beaches of Normandy just as the sun dipped below the horizon, though not before all light had disappeared. France wished M. Martin luck in getting to the next town before it grew too dark and started his small hike down to the rowboat nestled in the long, wiry marram grass, a hundred or so feet from the water’s edge. He’d brought it there earlier that month by cart, not wanting to be bothered with it later on. 

The near-winter cold nipped at his face and France drew himself further into his woolen coat as he walked, grip tightening on the bottle of wine and glasses in hand. He cursed himself for suggesting something as stupid as meeting right before the start of winter, in the cold month of novembre, at night, in the middle of the _ocean_. By the Lord, France _detested_ the cold. It reminded him too much of the vast expanses of cropless lands and the mass famine that ached in the pit of his stomach as many others perished. Of the plague that decimated the population and brought Europe itself to her very knees. Of that seemingly endless war, the fruitless campaigns through the English countryside. The day, week, month long sieges of attacking English armies.

Winters were one of the few respites he had from La Guerre de Cent Ans; most armies, most _people_ could not survive the long, drawn out winter months of that time. In fact, most people found it hard to survive at all. France spent many winters back then huddled into a cold stone château in Normandy, praying their stores of food would last until spring and cursing Angleterre with any energy he could spare. The fiery contempt he felt kept him warmer than any of the meek fires he built with frostbitten wood. He knew Angleterre spent many nights in quite a similar position.

France shook himself out of his reverie as he strode up to where his small boat rested in the sand; it wouldn’t do him any good to dwell on that war right before he saw Angleterre, given that it was not his intention to fight tonight. Neither was it ever France’s intention to dwell heavily on the past, nor the future, for that matter. It didn’t make sense to him to dwell on times which his actions could not affect. He could only change the present. The past was the past, and the future was God’s will.

Even so, there were times, it seemed, when he had no choice but to dwell on times passed, memories that had long since been first established replayed in his dreams on nights that were eerily silent, like a bell rung without a mallet. As France wrapped the wine and glasses in the thin fabric of the dish cloth and placed them in the hull of the boat, starting to drag it slowly to where the ocean made landfall in small swells and crashes, he distantly wondered if Angleterre had dreams like that.

Not that Angleterre would ever tell him, and in the end, it didn’t really matter. Maybe one day France would know, but for now he focused on lugging a too-heavy rowboat into the freezing ocean.

The small waves met him as he eventually got his boat far enough into the water that some of its weight was carried for him. The lower half of his legs ached deeply with the cold of the water as he waded around to the side and clambered in, careful not to tip the vessel past the point of no return. Climbing onto one of the benches, he lit the oil lantern that he had left in the hull along with the oars, and placed it on the bench opposite him. The soft light chased away the dark shadows in the curvature of his craft and France looked off into the distant horizon.

It was truly nearly dark now, only a thin strip of daylight clung desperately to the silhouetted distance. He spared a moment to look at the sky, releasing a heavy breath as he did so. The stars twinkled in patterns known only to him, spots of bright silver light amid the velvety midnight blue void above him. The moon shone high to the west, its mysterious allure distantly reminding him of some moment in his life long past, some kind of vague nostalgia that he couldn’t exactly place in his cathedral of memories, but the feeling tugged France’s expression into a wistful smile nonetheless.

He drew in a breath and held it, gathering his oars and drawing himself up until his back was straight. He breathed out and rowed away from the Northern French shore, as ready as he ever believed he would be to face tonight.

France rowed, and continued to row even as his arms began to ache and the cold brought a flush to his face and his breath fogged in front of him with every stroke that brought him closer to the Southern English shore. He rowed until the beaches of Normandy were only distantly recognizable and the cliffs and rocky shores of Angleterre were that much more visible. The near-center of La Manche.

Angleterre would be along shortly and France made sure that the light of his lantern was visible to the Northern waters from which the other would be traveling. Here, the air was hauntingly silent, but for the soft lapping of water against the sides of his small vessel. A gust of wind from the northeast blew across the channel waters and made France shiver even through his heavy coat. He stuck his hands in his pockets and breathed in deep and long through his nose to keep his teeth from chattering.

This winter promised to be cold and miserable, just as the last few winters had been. Though, those in the know claimed that this winter was bound to be less harsh than last year’s and, if that was true, they could surely thank the Lord for His mercy. When he had heard the news earlier this year that the River Thames had finally thawed, he breathed a sigh of relief for his long time rival. As much as they fought, France could respect the fear a frost like that strikes in the hearts of man and nation alike. It was one of the reasons France had brought the bottle of wine with him, to celebrate the end of one of the harshest winters in the 17th century, as well as the start of what was hopefully a less brutal season. There were, of course, a few other reasons to celebrate, most important of which was France’s victory in La Guerre des Réunions. Though France would be a fool to believe that Angleterre would ever drink to one of his victories. France was content to share a celebration with Angleterre for their separate reasons, these opportunities seemed to only come once a decade after all.

And so, France resolved to wait.

He resolved himself to wait for Angleterre even if it took all night, even if it took another century. They had an abundance of time, ultimately, and France truly feared in that moment that he may spend it all waiting for Angleterre, though that would not stop him.

He would not rush Angleterre in matters of the heart, even as France’s own heart yearned for that which it could not have. Angleterre was never warm, never had been, and yet, France found that he didn’t mind the other’s chill, even if he himself hated the cold. Angleterre’s cold glare, his cool confidence, his freezing contempt permeated France’s nights. Angleterre’s rare smile was burned into his brain, though he had only seen it three times, at the most. God above him if that smile wasn’t as beautiful as the sunrise through the windows of Notre Dame. It was a chilly breeze in the middle of summer, a breath of fresh air, a relief.

What had France gotten himself into?

What, in God’s name, was he doing here?

To be infatuated with such a long time enemy, someone he so opposed, and who so opposed him. Angleterre, who he had fought tooth and nail for so long, as long as his memory allowed. Whose cross exhilarated, angered, and scared him more than that of any Catholic priest or God Himself. To have one like that plague his mind so voraciously, haunt his waking moments and follow him into his dreams. It was an unwilling obsession. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even enjoy sex without thinking of that English bastard. It was irritating and frustrating and France... France had never felt like this before.

It _wasn’t_ love.

But it was...something.

France’s eyes burned and he tilted his head back with a breathy laugh, trying to shake off the lingering emotion. For all his victory, glory, and influence, was he really so easily undone?  
A lifetime of warring Angleterre only to have dreams of bedding him? What had become of the great France?

The stars were less bright now than they were on the beach and horizons of land around him were starting to grow hazy and undefined through the fog. The air was damp with the heavy blanket of mist and it seemed to grow thicker each time France focused on it.

His trousers from the knee down, along with his boots, were still soaked from hauling the boat into the water and added to a deep rooted chill that settled on his bones and crawled up his spine. He pulled his hands from his pockets and breathed into them, hoping to return some warmth to his extremities.

Before he could really start to regret this whole affair in earnest, however, he heard the quiet splashes of another boat approaching. France looked up from his hunched position in time to see Angleterre slide his boat next to France’s, bringing his momentum to a complete stop by grabbing the side of France’s vessel. When it was clear he would go no further, however, Angleterre withdrew his hand quickly, as if the wood had burned him. France decided not to mention it.

France took a moment to observe Angleterre, as one might observe the clouds before it rains, as the other took his oars from the water and set them rather carefully in the hull of his own small rowboat, one very similar to France’s.

Angleterre’s shoulders were stiff and his back was straight, even as he bent slightly over his boat. When he sat back up, his fingers drummed against his knees, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. He hadn’t even yet spared a glance toward France, and France would take offence if Angleterre didn’t seem so...nervous.

And though just a few hours earlier, France himself had been quite nervous about his occasion, he felt himself smile just a bit. It was nice to see Angleterre a bit nervous in this capacity, it showed he cared, even if it wasn’t much.

“Good evening, Angleterre.” France spared Angleterre from further uncertain fidgeting and tried desperately to keep the shiver out of his voice.

Angleterre met his eyes then, his face a mask of cool indifference, even if his body portrayed otherwise. His ever-observing gaze danced over France’s face and hunched pasture. France subconsciously straightened up and Angleterre’s gaze followed that too. His eyes shone like jewels in the dim light and France found it hard to look away.

“Good evening, France.” Angleterre spoke carefully, his words measured, “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

Their gazes held. Each of them searching the other’s face for something, anything. Each of them refusing to give the other ground. Even their conversations were a battlefield.

France breathed. He forced his posture to relax and offered a small smile to the island nation. “It has not been long, Angleterre,” It’s only been a century. “I trust your journey wasn’t overly difficult?”

Angleterre regarded him a moment longer, eyes narrowing the slightest bit, as though France were a particularly complex knot he was trying to untangle. “It was easy enough,” He said finally, “Though it is quite cold tonight.”

All of a sudden it seemed like Angleterre was allergic to looking anywhere but France, and France was getting very tired of it very quickly. He was not a panther that would pounce the second Angleterre dropped his guard. His intentions were in no way malicious and it was starting to piss him off that Angleterre, for all his appraising, couldn’t seem to get that.

It must have shown somewhat in his expression because Angleterre stiffened slightly, turning his chest toward France and drawing himself up to his full height. If they were anywhere else, France would’ve done the same, throw out a few careless words, and they would fight. Just like they always do, just like they’ve always done. For one night, for tonight, France didn’t want that.

He offered a small shrug in response to Angleterre’s earlier statement and dropped his gaze. He was no threat. Instead, his eyes caught on the bottle of wine and glasses nestled in the light cloth under the bench opposite his. “It’s true that the night is quite cold Angleterrre,” He said as he leaned forward to reach for it, keeping his voice even. He grabbed the bottle as well as the glasses and as he lifted them to show Anlgeterre he said, “What better way to warm up?”

Angleterre didn’t say anything, but France saw his eyes grow wide with surprise as his brow furrowed in confusion, it was clear the other had not expected France’s actions. It was always a treat to surprise Angleterre, as it was so rarely even possible, and Angleterre’s surprise usually meant things were going well for France. So rare, in fact, was this surprise, that France often took the time to fully savor it, like the first full meal after a harsh winter, or a long war. Though that reaction may not be so appreciated here.

France smiled at his English counterpart again, working hard to keep the smugness he felt out of his expression. He handed Angleterre one of the glasses, who took it gingerly from France’s hands before France fished the bottle opener out of his coat pocket. His own glass stood on the bench next to his hip. “It’s a 1671 Bourgogne blanc, an excellent year in that region.” France said, more to fill the silence as he uncorked the wine than anything else.

France watched Angleterre, his hands working automatically, as the other ran his tongue over his bottom lip and twisted the glass by the stem in his hand. He looked at the bottle in France’s hands, then up to his eyes, down to the bottle, then up to his eyes again. It wasn’t until the cork was pulled from the bottle with an audible pop, however, that Angleterre asked France, “Why?”

France hummed, picking up his glass and pouring himself a generous portion, “To celebrate of course.” He said finally, gesturing at the other to bring his glass over. Angleterre did so, much more hesitant than France.

“Celebrate what?” He asked, his tone uncertain, watching France pour a considerable amount in his glass as well, the low amber light giving the white wine a golden color that refracted through the glass in otherworldly qualities.

France breathed a laugh as he set the bottle back onto the cloth he had brought it in, making sure it wouldn’t tip over as it was still mostly full. He sat up and grabbed his own glass, swirling the liquid within, “Well the thawing of the Thames last spring, of course.” France said, bringing the glass to his nose, breathing in the oaky aroma and closing his eyes, though not before he saw Angleterre raise an eyebrow incredulously.

“Why would _you_ want to celebrate that?”

“I, too, know that frosts like that are among the most terrible of trials for those like us,” France replied, eyes sliding over to Angleterre. With a teasing smile he continued, “Of course, we could always drink to _my_ victory in La Guerre des Réunions, if you’d prefer.”

Angleterre scowled, though his eyes danced with an amusement that lessened the severity of his expression. “Like I’d _ever_ lower myself to drinking to one of _your_ victories, France.”

For a moment, it almost seemed like Angleterre had a sense of humor, though France wouldn’t wager on it. Nonetheless, France’s smile widened into a grin and he raised his glass towards Angleterre, “To the thawing of the Thames, then. May history not repeat itself this year.”

As Angleterre raised his glass to France’s, it nearly looked like he was _smiling_. Just the tiniest upwards tick of his mouth that might even be disregarded as a trick of the dim light around them. But even the _possibility_ did funny things to France’s heart.

Their glasses clinked and France felt as though something truly remarkable may have been accomplished. Something he never would have imagined happening. Here he was, sharing a bottle of wine with his rival. With his enemy. With the only person he believed truly knew him. But before the drink could even grace his lips, Angleterre decided to open his big, idiotic, uncultured mouth, “Am I correct in assuming you didn’t poison this?”

France never knocked back his drinks, especially not wine of this quality. He had not been lying when he said ‘71 was a good year for the Bourgogne region, he had been lucky to get his hands on a couple of bottles of his own. Wine was to be savored and appreciated, and if he got a bit drunk, that was just a bonus. And yet, he found himself drinking a far more sizeable portion of his glass as he attempted to comprehend the absurdity of that statement; the smooth, full texture and hint of citrus of the vintage all but lost on him, “Mon Dieu Angleterre, you _watched_ me open it, of course it’s not poisoned. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“The alternative is sharing a drink with a millennium long enemy without malicious intent. One, I would argue, is far more ridiculous than the other.” Angleterre said, now swishing his glass just as France had done earlier.

France sighed heavily and took another, smaller sip from his glass, “If you don’t want it, that’s fine. Throw it to the fishes. They, at least, will be more appreciative than you.”

Angleterre didn’t respond, choosing instead to take his own tentative sip from the glass of Bourgogne blanc. His brow was drawn up briefly before it quickly morphed into a grimace as he swallowed. France’s heart sank to his stomach. After all of the time spent staring at his cellar shelves, he truly believed he had chosen a wine that Angleterre would like, as well as one that fit the occasion. Wine was one of his specialties, after all. He had worked to perfect the art over the course of his entire life, going all the way back to his time as part of the L’Empire Romain. It was rare for him to get something like this wrong.

“God France, you know I hate it when you’re right.”

What?

France looked down at his glass before looking back to Angleterre, who was still grimacing into his own glass. “I’m afraid I don’t understand your meaning.” He said.

“Do not pretend to be simple, France, I’m quite sure you know exactly what I mean.”

France rolled his eyes, “Actually, non, despite whatever falsities you are under the assumption of, I truly do not comprehend.”

“Christ, France! If you must make me say it.” Angleterre took a deep breath, looking out into the dense fog around them, lantern light reflecting off the miniscule water particles, and shrouding them in a sphere of amber light. “The wine,” He paused before starting again, “ _Your_ wine, is quite excellent.”

France lit up, smile stretching wide across his face. He couldn’t recall a time in which kinder words were spoken to him, nor even about him, in Angleterre’s vast collection of articulated speech. Despite the cold of the night, France felt rather warm all of a sudden. “Merci– Non, _thank you_ Angleterre.” He said, emphasizing the English phrase in hopes the other would grasp its full sincerity.

Angleterre coughed awkwardly, “Don’t get sentimental on me France. This doesn’t change anything.”

“Of course not.” France replied, grinning ever wider, though he attempted to hide it by taking another sip of the _excellent_ wine he had brought.

They continued to drink in comfortable silence, each of them slowly nursing their glasses. France was nearly _enjoying_ himself, and wasn’t that a feat when he was around Angleterre. He didn’t feel quite as cold anymore, even though it must have been around midnight now, something he dismissed easily as the alcohol.

France polished off his glass with a satisfied smile. Bending slightly, he reached down and grabbed the bottle once again, taking a moment to admire the liquid as he poured, its light golden hue reminding him of fresh fields of wheat, hot African deserts, and seemingly infinite American hills of tall grass just as the sun set.

“You look like you’re going to bed that wine.” Did Angleterre just make a joke?

France breathed a quiet laugh and shook his head slightly, looking over to Angleterre, whose eyes shone with mirth. France held up the bottle, “Would you like some more as well?”

“Well,” Angleterre started, the low light nearly giving color to his cheeks, “As long as you’re offering, I would not be _opposed_ to such an idea.” He finished, the end of the phrase lilting ever so slightly.

France was starting to think Angleterre’s awkward inability to fully accept anything from him, for fear of seeming less than cold and hostile at all times, was somewhat endearing. Angleterre’s company could be quite erratic, even at the best of times. Though maybe France couldn’t speak on that; he himself knew that as great as he was, he was not always the most consistent, no was he the easiest person to get along with. Beyond that, he had no idea what Angleterre was like around those he didn’t consider his enemy. France had never known the other as anything but an enemy, and didn’t that just irk him so. To know Angleterre so well while not truly _knowing_ him; it was not something France ever expected to be bothered by. And yet...

He poured another generous helping of wine into Angleterre’s outstretched glass, “How are you colonies doing then?” France said in lieu of a deafening silence in which he is left to his own unattainable desires and insatiable curiosities. “I trust Jamestown is still thriving?”

Angleterre rolled his eyes, bringing his glass toward him and leaning back as soon as France had finished. “Hardly,” He said tiredly, “They may have come far from the earlier half of this century, but it has not been easy. Those colonies continue to be a burden upon me. At this rate it might be more profitable for me if they perished and I could start fresh.” Angleterre finished and took a drink.

“Oh surely it’s not as bad as all that,” France said, smiling into his glass as he took a drink of his own, “Last I heard, they were establishing cities and even self governing. I believe they’re more resilient than you give them credit for.”

“Perhaps,” Angleterre hummed, “But, in the end, colonies are meant to be resources and tax profit. If they aren’t doing that, what good are they to me?”

“I suppose that’s true, but you and I bother know that colonies are worth more than that,” France took a sip, “Colonies are land and influence, arguably a means to an end. To have a colony in every sphere of influence is, in a way, to rule the globe. I believe _that’s_ worth any loss in profits, as long as it works out in the end.”

“Huh,” Angleterre voiced quietly, staring vaguely to the west, as if he was trying to observe his colonies across the Atlantic from this vast distance. He drank again. “You know France? I think you’re quite right.” He said, though the way he said it gave France the odd impression that Angleterre was speaking more to himself than anyone else; his gaze was distant, unfocused on their immediate surroundings. Like he was lost in the fantasy of an idea he hadn’t truly given thought to until it was laid out in front of him. Like he really was considering world domination. It wouldn’t surprise France, it was something they all dreamed of, though it was usually disregarded as an unattainable, megalomaniacal fantasy, even heresy. Only God dominated their world, no mortal man, nor near-immortal nation.

“Angleterre, if I didn’t know better, I’d say it looked like you were just planning a global take-over.” France said, partly in jest, and partly out of some degree of genuine concern for the sudden hunger in Angleterre’s eyes.

Angleterre looked back at France, eyes glinting dangerously, “We know now that the world is far larger than we thought, France. There’s an abundance of land out there for those with the fortitude to take it.”

France couldn’t just let this stand, now could he? A world ruled by the English? He couldn’t allow that. He was _Le Royaume de France_ and his influence spread just as Angleterre’s did. He would not back down from this challenge. He leaned back, shoulders relaxing. His gaze did not break from Angleterre’s. “I guess we’ll have to see who gets there first then.”

Angleterre held his gaze for a moment longer, smile playing at his lips, “I guess we will.”

Now, as unlikely as it was, France had to admit that if Angleterre had wanted to have him right then and there, France would struggle to say no. His answer would have been a very quick and resounding _yes_ , in fact. Though that was so far out of their realm of reality, it was like Espange becoming an atheist, or le Saint Empire Romain attempting to take over Europe. Unfathomable events that France could not expect to happen within this lifetime, or the next hundred.

Nonetheless, the thought brought warmth to his cheeks that was surely not lost on the observant Englishman. He could only hope the other would come to his own conclusions of the effects of alcohol, or the cold.

France busied himself with the drink in hand, tearing his eyes from Angleterre’s. The longer he allowed Angleterre to face him eye to eye, the closer Angleterre would get to reaching unfavorable, and true, conclusions. Eyes were said to be windows and France would not allow the other to read the writing on the walls of his mind. Not tonight. Not yet. Angleterre may be incredibly stubborn and especially dense at times, but he was certainly _not_ stupid or in any way impercipient. With enough evidence, he will reach the correct conclusion, as unlikely as that conclusion may seem to him. France couldn’t even afford for the mere idea to be planted of his unfortunate attraction.

France couldn’t remember ever finishing a glass of wine so quickly, though he hardly realized it. His mind was a tangled mess of scenarios in which his lifelong enemy and neighbor realized France’s affections for him. Could it even yet be called affection; it had hardly developed beyond a passing attraction, after all. None of these scenarios ended particularly well, regardless of how his emotion was interpreted. Would Angleterre be disgusted? Oh most definitely. Not only was France another _man_ , he was also, well, _France_. And while France thought of himself very highly, Angleterre did not. Angleterre would certainly use such information to his advantage, would he not? Would he start another war? They’d gone to war over less before. Even worse, would he stop talking to France altogether? What would France do then? When Angleterre’s cold demeanor became that of solid ice? That would certainly be worse than any war.

Angleterre cleared his throat quite suddenly and France was startled from his thoughts once again. As he turned to face Angleterre, having ended up staring distantly into the grey abyss around them, he became acutely aware of every small sound surrounding them. Every lick of water against their boats, to the nearly inaudible creaks and groans of the wooden craftsmanship he was seated upon.

Angleterre was staring at him intently, curiously. France tried to make his expression as uninteresting as possible. After what could have been hours, but was most likely seconds, Angleterre spoke, “Is there any wine left?” He gestured vaguely down to where France had set the wine, eyes darting between France and where the bottle sat innocently.

France’s mind took a second too long to register Angleterre’s words, “Oh, oui– Yes, of course. Not terribly much I’m afraid.”

“We should finish it off tonight certainly. We wouldn’t want it to go to waste right?” Angleterre said, far quieter than any of his previous statements this evening. It seemed like they’d both grown quieter as the hours wore on.

“Surely not,” France’s tone lowered to meet Angleterre’s, “Especially seeing as you enjoy it so much.” He jested, though not cruelly.

Angleterre narrowed his eyes, but pushed his glass to France all the same, “Don’t make me regret that even more than I already do.” Angleterre’s tone was just as lighthearted.

France reached for Anngleterre’s glass and their hands brushed as he took it from the other. It surprised him how cool Angleterre’s hands were, even while he didn’t appear to be bothered by the cold. Angleterre withdrew his hand quickly and France pulled the glass to himself, resolving to pour the wine and not acknowledge their accidental contact.

Once there was a little more than half a glass’ worth of wine in Angleterre’s glass he handed it back, grabbing his own glass to fill with whatever remained.

He set the empty bottle down again, much less carefully this time, and looked at Angleterre, smiling slightly. He raised his glass into the air around them the slightest bit, offering one last homage to the feat they had accomplished. Confusion danced across Angleterre’s face as he looked at France, some burning curiosity overtly weighing on his mind. His mouth opened, likely to ask the very question so clearly on the tip of his tongue, but at the last second he seemed to think better of it, shutting his mouth with a small shake of his head. Instead, he raised his glass in the air, mirroring France, and without further words or movement, they took their first sip of the last glass of the evening.

They drank slowly, savoring the last of the bottle, relishing in the temporary warmth even as the cold mist sat upon them. France took his time, enjoying the last of an excellent vintage and the first successful attempt to reconcile his relationship with Angleterre. That being said, of course France found familiar comfort in their back and forth conflict, relished the connection they had made even though it was laid on a foundation of the worst sort. France loved to connect with those around him, he liked people. And he loved having a connection with Angleterre, who didn’t find the same solace in others as France did.

But, even as war often starts as a terrifying and exhilarating conquest of another, after wearing on for decades, it tends to grow rather dull. War was such a large part of their lives that it was often _harder_ if they considered it awful and grueling, as it truly was. There was not much joy to be found in their world other than that of glory and conquest, crushing opponents in fabricated competitions to find some consolation in their own existence. It was a mindset left over from the cultures in which they were founded and perpetuated by religion and the allure of absolute power.

France longed for something else to enjoy when he was with Angleterre. Something other than their competition. He didn’t want it to end, but he wanted something to compare it to. Bread on its own is fine for a night, but is made better with cheese, wine, and meat. France hated for meals to grow bland, especially ones that had so much potential.

France wanted to build a castle on their foundation of skeletons.

And maybe, if fortune was on his side, Angleterre would want the same.

France had long since finished the last of his glass, and from what he could see, Angleterre had as well. Neither of them said anything, even as their eyes met once again.

What could Angleterre be thinking about in these moments?

How much time had passed?

“It’s getting late, France.” Angleterre’s voice was now a near whisper.

It _was_ getting late. France could feel it in the delay of his thoughts and the weight of his limbs. He stared at Angleterre a beat longer, “Yes, it’s quite late already. I’d like to be back before sunrise, I imagine you feel the same?” He posed it as a question. He really did want to be back by morning, he promised to meet a man by the name of Jean Crespin for a late luncheon, some loan trouble he wanted to discuss and the like. He hadn’t expected to be out so long.

“Yes, quite,” Angleterre spoke, “I agreed to help account for a shipment arriving in a few hours, and I mustn't be late. I’m sure you understand.”

France did understand, and he nodded as much, “I suppose this is where I leave you then, Angleterre.” France outstretched his hand for the other’s glass, who handed it over wordlessly. “I should thank you, I believe, for indulging me this evening.”

“No France,” Angleterre said, gathering his oars and positioning himself to row back to his own shore, “I should thank you. This night was...not unpleasant. Admittedly against my expectations.”

Well, wasn’t tonight just full of surprises.

France offered a smile to his companion, “I enjoyed myself as well Angleterre.” He gathered his oars as well, ready to row back to the shores from whence he came.

Angleterre rolled his eyes but did not refute the statement. “Until next time France.”

“Au revoir Angleterre.”

And they rowed away from the calm shroud of fog they’d shared, back to their homes, their responsibilities, their expectations. France found the air here to be remarkably colder, even though he was closer to shore.

The journey back was long and tedious, but by the time his boat scraped against the sand, it felt like no time had passed at all. The moon, was nowhere to be seen.

France pushed, then dragged, then pushed his small yet impossibly heavy rowboat out of the dark ocean and up the rough sandy beach.

He left it in the same beach grass as he had last time he was here, grabbing the empty bottle and glasses from the hull, blowing out the small flame in the lantern before leaving it there, and resolved himself to walk the few hours back to town.

The walk, too, was arduous and enduring and France was half asleep for most of it. By the time the small city was in sight along the lightly trafficked dirt road, the sky had begun to grow light, taking on a dim, pale pastel hue, stars blinking out of existence above him.

France smiled. He did so love the sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the french for the chapter:  
> Angleterre - England,, wow who would have guessed omg  
> Bourgogne blanc - white burgundy  
> La guerre de cent ans - the hundred years’ war  
> La Manche - the french term for the English channel,, literally “the sleeve”  
> La Guerre des Réunions - the war of reunions, in which france won against spain and hre  
> Espagne - spain,, omg im so surprised  
> Le saint empire romain - the holy roman empire  
> L’empire romain - the roman empire  
> Le royaume de France - the kingdom of France  
> Mon dieu - my god  
> Merci - thank you  
> Oui - yes  
> Non - no,,, not much of a shock, that one  
> Au revoir - goodbye  
> Also, a league (the official “league of paris” that was used at the time was about 2 miles/3km)  
> Also also, I do reference feet at one point(as in the measurement) because that was what was used at the time, or ‘pieds’ in french,, this was set before the metric system was introduced
> 
> wow um thanks for reading, this chapter took a long ass time to come out and i hope the next one will come out sooner (but dont get your hopes up)
> 
> I really wanted them to share a bottle of champagne in this chapter, but, uh, turns out champagne wasn't invented until 1691 so,,,, that may or may not show up in the next chapter ;))))))


	3. 1694

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England is again invited to spend an evening with France, and as he attempts to answer the question of why, he gets a little more than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whats up gang, a little note for you:  
> this chapter takes place in 1694 (wow shocker i know) but its smack dab in the middle of lil tussle between european powers known as the 9 years war, aka louis xiv vs all of europe. My primary focus in this chapter, however, is not that war and is instead the development of the relationship between france and england (later britain but thats not until 1707) and how a little emotional vulnerability can go a long way in their opinions of each other
> 
> BUT! it is a super cool war that u should totally look up and i lament the fact that i focused on their angsty teen romance and not the epic conquests of the sun king, but who knows- maybe i'll write a louis xiv based oneshot?

England stared across the Channel waters, setting sun reflecting off the dark ocean like jewels, nearly blinding. The sky was partially overcast, clouds glowing shades of pink and orange against the matte lilac sky. A handful of scattered stars twinkled to life above him, wind whispering across his cheeks. The ocean ebbed and flowed, reaching desperately up the beach before being dragged back down by the tide, only to reach out again, the short waves offering a constant, static noise that flooded the air around him. Salten spray clung to him as he breathed in the unmistakable scent of the sea.

His foot tapped impatiently against the smooth, dark pebbles below him, their damp clacking nearly drowned out by the water in front of him. His rowboat sat on the rocks next to him, silent and still, its shadow elongated across the shore. England huffed and checked the time, pulling his watch from his coat’s inner pocket, the cold metal sliding easily out of the dark brown wool.

He was early, he knew that much already, as they usually didn’t meet until the sun had long gone down. Though, he figured there wasn’t much of a “usually” with a meeting that had only happened twice, soon to be three times, in thirty years. And, these days, it seemed there were very few things that were ever “usual” about France, other than how irritating he was.

He tucked the watch back into his coat and trained his eyes on the sun as it dipped below the horizon, the Channel’s surface churning slightly, dark beneath the light’s reflection. He knew he would be here for more than an hour, at the least, and he wondered, not for the first time, why he was even here.

It wasn’t like he particularly wanted to see _France_ of all people, especially now that their war had driven him into serious debt, all for the sake of winning the war against France and his tyrannical old king. They were a far cry from their alliance three decades ago.

Perhaps he was merely curious. That had to be it. There was no other reason he would have for meeting France other than to find out why France wanted to meet him. This whole affair had been France’s proposal after all.

He could have spent longer at home, balanced his accounts, had a cup of tea, any number of things that didn’t include standing on the beach, waiting for someone he didn’t even want to see. But, he had agreed to this meeting, had said so in a written reply back in spring and again when he had agreed to the date last month. He liked to think of himself as a polite person, it was a quality he valued deeply, and it wouldn’t do to keep France waiting long. The last time they met, England had _almost_ felt bad to find France waiting for him in the cold.

Seeing France last decade had been odd, even odder than in 1674, if only because that first time had only seen a few parse words exchanged between them. Not only had they exchanged more than a handful of words last time, France had brought a bottle of wine to share with England. This was exceptionally strange given the fact that England couldn’t even convince France to give him ten, _ten_ , percent off his bulk purchases of French goods, the bastard. France had also been atypically complacent, docile, and for what was possibly the first time ever, they spent more than an hour together without it coming to blows. He didn’t understand it.

But he wanted to, as intolerable as France’s company tended to be.

The last sliver of sun disappeared behind the horizon, the light soon to follow, and England began to pace.

Back and forth along the water’s edge, the crunch of pebbles beneath his feet blending with the static of small waves. The ocean was calm tonight; England couldn’t decide whether or not he should consider himself fortunate for that.

He paced down the beach, about twenty feet or so, away from his boat until he reached a particularly large stone nestled among the other rocks, then turned on his heel and walked back again. He wasn’t nervous. He _wasn’t_. Though it would have been natural to be nervous meeting one’s enemy alone and arguably vulnerable, _England_ wasn’t nervous. He knew France, knew his borders and colonies like the back of his hand, knew the wars he’d won and lost, knew his favorite strategies and his preferred methods of colonization. England knew of France’s aversion to cold and fondness for mornings, even knew he loved the color blue and that he pretended not to like the color red because of its association with enemies of his like England and Spain, when it was truthfully one of his favorites. Every detail England learned was committed to memory, every scrap of information learned at diplomatic dinners, trade meetings, or on the battlefield, because what else is one to do with such knowledge of a lifelong enemy.

So no, he wasn’t nervous, because he knew France, and knew that France’s intentions were rarely anything but what he claimed them to be. After all, he’d always announced his intentions to go to war with England, had done so only a few years ago. What were his intentions here? Why didn’t England know?

It certainly wasn’t for a lack of inquiry, he had asked as much in several written responses to France, only to be brushed off time and time again. France wrote around the question consistently, as though he hadn’t even read it . It irritated England to no end.

And, France had been acting somewhat _different_ towards him the past several years, beyond just his refusal to argue and nearly _kind_ demeanor. France had been acting strange in other ways too, between the almost _nervous_ energy and the stints of lingering eye contact the last time they met, England was determined to find out what had caused these changes in France.

There were quite a few stars in the sky now, the sky taking on a dark twilight shade as England stopped in his pace next to his dark wooden rowboat. He sighed deeply, there was no point to all this, he was sure that once he found the answer to his question, he would cease in this silly fraternizing with his enemy. Once his curiosity was sated, he would be free to go about his life, forgetting about this strange thirty year period in which he was nearly _friendly_ with France. He had no real need for these meetings beyond that.

He reached down into the hull of his vessel and grabbed the handle of his bronze and glass oil lantern, lighting it with a match he pulled from his pocket. The lantern’s light circled the area around him in a golden hue, making the beach he stood on seem darker in comparison.

He set the lantern down on the rocks as he sat down with a huff, not noticing the dampness of the pebbles through his thick coat and dark pants. It was supposed to be a new moon tonight, meaning the night would be particularly dark, but also that the stars would be that much brighter, without the moon’s light to drown them out.

It was still odd for him to think that their earth was not the center of the universe, that the heavens did not revolve around them, but rather, they revolved around the heavens, even though it had been over a hundred years since the theory was proposed. Not everyone believed the theory, of course, even among his own population, but it made sense to England, personally. There had always been a massive disconnect between religion and science, the two often directly contradicted each other, but England himself found an inexplicable comfort in the idea that they were not in the spotlight of their universe, part of him even hoped they were insignificant enough to avoid God’s incessant observation. Of course, he wanted the Earth’s spotlight on him, wanted to rule over and control the land and sea therein, but he didn’t want to do it under the watchful eyes of unseen forces. It was oppressive. It was unnerving.

He’d always had a certain obligation to express and embody the opinions of his people and the will of his government, but that did not mean he didn’t carry his own personal set of opinions and beliefs. The two didn’t often differ, rarely was that the case, but there were a few fondnesses he held all for himself.

England noticed then, the sun’s luminescence long gone from the sky, a miniscule flicker of orange light across the water, on the other shore. It was so small, nearly indiscernible from the inky silhouette of land against the dark midnight sky, that England nearly didn’t see it. In fact, it may have even been the absolute pitch black of the night that made the light noticeable at all.

It must be France getting ready to start his voyage, there was no one else out here at this time of night, at this time of year. England sighed again, he would need to start doing the same, there was no sense in sitting here any longer if he knew France would be heading out soon.

He felt quite old suddenly, as though the years behind him were accumulating into weights that anchored themselves to his ankles and sat heavily on his shoulders. There were those, of course, that had lived a lot longer than him, but in that moment, a millennium felt like an awfully long while. Perhaps it was simply just his recent government overhaul giving more perspective to his years, but he was starting to feel like an old man.

Not to say he was terribly broken hearted over the end of the reign of King James II, he really was rather over Catholicism at this point and the forced institutions of Catholic churches set his teeth on edge. Even if he did, technically, worship the same God as any Catholic out there, their beliefs were different, albeit slightly, but that difference _mattered_ , more than many other things did. It was a difference he would, and had gone to war over countless times. Bodies littered the earth with the innumerable counts of those who had fought and died for the God, or even gods, they worshipped.

This, too, made him feel quite old, and as he finally stood, grabbing the lantern and shuffling over to his boat, he wondered distantly if France ever felt his age after such revolutions, knowing the other’s scattered history of bloody uprisings. Then England immediately attempted to shake the question from his mind, it was not for him to wonder about what France thought or felt unless it was something they were willing to fight and die over, and even then England cared more about winning the war than proving his point superior. Cared more about the fight itself, the scent of gunpowder or clash of swords, than about whatever France thought about anything at all. He believed France felt the same, though he could not assume such things and he certainly wouldn’t be asking anytime soon.

His lantern in the hull, somewhat upright against the curvature, lit the inside of the vessel, cutting off its spread to the rest of the beach. England dragged the boat to where the water met the abused rocks of the beach and kept dragging, breathing through the winter cold of the Atlantic waters as it soaked through his clothing and crawled up his skin like pins and needles. As he pulled the boat farther into the water, the sand beneath his feet gave way to his weight, pulling him further into the freezing balck water. Though, before he could truly sink very far, or get pulled into the mysterious watery abyss, he climbed up the loose, waterlogged sand to the side of his vessel and clambered over the edge, wary of the precarious tilt of the off balance hull. 

Sitting on one of the two benches, he took a moment to catch his breath, staring at the stars as he did so. He wished he knew what they were, why they shone the way they did. They were mysterious and incomprehensible, intangible and unreal, one of the few things he didn’t think he’d be able to take or claim, though he may try one day. Their presence was a constant, distant celestials observing them passively. England had always taken comfort in constants.

He rowed away from shore then, having finished his idle musing, and turned his attention to a more present and imperative point of focus, to what he was rather afraid would be the end of a constant.

No. That wasn’t right. He wasn’t afraid. He, _England_ , feared no man, nor beast, nor abstract concept, and maybe, hopefully, if he said it enough, it would be true.

He focused on rowing.

A hard feat, at times, as the exercise was so entirely dull and repetitive, and so ingrained in his very being, etched into his bones after hundreds of years of sea travel, that he hardly had to even think about it at this point. Nevertheless, he let himself think only of the burn in his arms, the cold in his legs, and the occasional glance behind him to where that miniscule flicker of lantern light across the water was growing in size with their shrinking distance.

With time they grew closer, not in the metaphorical manner of novels in which two people gain a friendship they never imagined having, too blinded by old grudges and inflated egos to realize that which was right in front of them, but given enough conscious effort and days, weeks, months spent together they find what they’ve always needed and, on some subconscious level, craved. No, that was not something he and France could ever have, too deep was their hatred, too large were their egos, and England didn’t want that anyway so why was he even giving the concept thought. Instead, with time, a short amount of time of minutes, not even hours, not even days, they grew closer in physical distance, such that England could soon hear the quiet splashes of France’s approach entangle with his own, some in time with his, others off beat. They had different strokes after all. 

With a few minutes more, minutes that felt like hours, they saw themselves slide next to each other with minimal interception or adjustment and took another hour long minute to pull their oars out of the water and set them down in their respective hulls. England could feel France’s eyes on him, studying him intently, searching for...something. England did not meet his gaze, felt it might answer France’s question without him having even asked. Or maybe it just felt like too much.

“Bonsoir, Angleterre.” France broke the silence and time seemed to speed up to its normal pace, seconds no longer felt like minutes, minutes no longer passed like hours. France had just greeted him in French. He hadn’t done that the previous two times they met. Did that mean something? Had France greeted England in English before as some kind of symbol of his intentions, a sort of olive branch? Was that good will expiring? Had it already?

Did England want it to?

France was looking at him.

France was looking at him, and as England finally turned his gaze to meet France’s, he saw nothing in the other’s dark eyes. No malice, but nothing else either. Just an open expression, one of patience, one that was waiting for England.

“Ah, good evening. France.” Should he have said it in French as well?

What? No, of course not. He bore no good will toward France, he would not extend any olive branches.

France smiled at him, a small, open smile, like he was trying to appear as welcoming as possible without having much experience in doing so. The lantern light in front of him illuminated his figure in soft hues of amber light, growing fuzzy where his back was obscured by shadow. The water and sky around them were so dark, their lanterns acted as beacons, drawing England’s eyes to only them and the things they shone on, like France.

“How are you...faring, Angleterre?” France asked almost tentatively, shattering their short silence with carefully spoken words.

England tensed his jaw and turned to face France fully, preparing a whirlwind of speech. Who did France think he was? Who did he think he was fooling? There was no friendship between them, no amicability, and France, who would have been making an effort to keep somewhat informed on English politics, should well know of the revolution, the debt, the war, not just with France, but the one in Ireland as well. England’s exiled king living within France’s very borders, supported by his obsessive, overbearing, overly ambitious, and, frankly, _insane_ monarch Louis XIV. And France wanted to ask how he was _faring_?

This was ridiculous, and insulting, and out of line for enemies such as themselves, and England was about to say as much when he noticed France putting his hands up in mock surrender, nervous smile playing on his features.

“I, uh, meant you no offence.” France said, and England’s tirade died in his throat, so caught off guard was he at a voluntary and easy surrender on France’s part. “I only meant to make conversation, a rather idiotic proposition considering, well,” France continued awkwardly. He sighed heavily, clearly unsure of how to continue. “I...apologize, I know it was rather forward of me.”

...What?

Had France just...apologized to him? Sincerely? That couldn’t be... It wasn’t possible.

England blinked dumbly, not daring to look away from France, but unable to speak. France stared back at him, expression sincere and nervous smile gone, though in his eyes there remained a degree of apprehension not often seen outside the battlefield.

England felt his anger boil in his gut and bubble up his throat quite suddenly, “What, in _God’s_ name, has possessed you France?!” He didn’t quite yell, but the effect was the same with a volume not yet reached between them in these little meetings. “You–You invite me here, alone, to–to what? Talk?! Share a bottle of wine?! What happened to the visceral loathing you have so often felt the need to remind me of, more times than even I would bother to count?!” England’s voice shook with anger. “What happened to one of the most brutal countries in the known world?! The France I’ve met on the battlefield? Where is he?”

He breathed for a moment, lamenting the loss of an opportunity to approach this with some degree of calculatory professionalism. Something about France invoked the deepest depths of his emotional capacity, his chest burned with the very intensity of his hatred. He looked at France, who was staring at him slack-jawed, clearly caught off-guard, his eyes searching England’s even still. And didn’t that just irritate England ever more, the France he knew would never stand such vituperation without immediately returning in kind.

He saw France take a breath, preparing to respond, but England beat him to it, “We fought for an entire century, once upon a time.” England continued, anger simmering now, tone quiet but intense, “You and I are not friends, nor will we ever be. I refuse to befriend a man that has incited war in my nation, who has plundered and pillaged my ships, cut fingers off my soldiers, and looked me in the eye as he killed me, who drove an iron sword into my heart. Now tell me France, what, on Heaven or Earth, could you expect to find in friendship with one such as I?”

France snapped his jaw closed, his eyes no longer searched England’s, but instead bore into him with a fiery emotion England was far more familiar with. “You are a brute, an uncultured barbarian not worth the dust kicked up by your horse.” France intoned, voice tight and oddly quiet. France never insulted him quietly. “God only knows why I ever–” He cut himself off, turning away from England, and if that wasn’t the strangest thing.

This was all exceedingly irregular behavior for France, behavior he wasn’t used to, behavior that changed their dynamic, and, in the face of this irregular behavior, England did what he did best, he ignored it in favor of insulting France, “God only knows why _I_ ever agreed to _this_ in the first place.” He scoffed.

France whirled around, “Then _leave_ Angleterre.” He spat England’s name like a curse, as though it had physically burned him to say it. His expression had morphed drastically from open shock and rumination to closed off, anger-fueled aggression, eyes shining with– Were those...tears? That wasn’t...possible. It was...

England was wildly ill-equipped for this.

France dropped his gaze from England, shoulders slumping, and turned away from England once again, staring out toward the inky black horizon. The sounds of water lapping up from the Channel filled the chasm of silence between them.

Don’t apologize.

Don’t.

This is _France_. Do _not_ apologize to him.

After a minute or so, France spoke again, quietly, voice taught with the effort to keep it from breaking, “Perhaps,” He breathed shakily, “I am simply tired of the relationship we’ve found ourselves in. Perhaps, I want something worth more than just the most brutal pieces of ourselves. Perhaps, I,” France sighed, shaking his head, “Nevermind. C’est stupide.”

Whatever was England meant to do with that? With any of this? And why did he feel like such an arse? “I, um,” He cleared his throat quietly, “I don’t understand.” He didn’t understand. And he just admitted it.

To lack understanding was to lack control, to lack control was to be weak. To admit weakness to anyone, to _France_ , was not something England did. It just wasn’t. So why was he doing it here?

France turned back to him, looked him in the eyes as if he was seeing England for the first time. His expression...He seemed...lost? That was probably the only way England could describe it. Not quite uncertain, nor scared, nor sad, but a combination of trace amounts of all three. France seemed lost, and a bit unsure, and like he was looking for something in England’s companionship, searching, searching, searching for some sort of answer. Like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, hands in the air, beseeching God himself to tell him whether or not he should jump.

It was such an...un-France-like expression.

France was never lost. France was always...found. Confident and sure and unwavering where England was not. Threw himself fully into everything he did, and didn’t look before he leapt.

Now, he was looking at England like he’d give him an answer and, somewhere deep, deep down, England wanted to.

Even though they were enemies.

Even though they hated each other.

Even though this was _France_.

“I...don’t understand either.” France nearly whispered, holding himself like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

England swallowed. France kept staring at him. “Yes, well,” He was so far out of his depth. This was so unnatural. “Sometimes, it’s alright to, uh, not understand things.” God, where was his eloquence when he needed it?

France looked away from England, down and into the dark waters below them and England worried for a moment that he may have truly ruined the night with that one statement and, again, why did he care, but France was...smiling? Small, something really only meant for himself, but it was _there_ , and it was...actually rather nice to see.

France smiled a lot, this was hardly the first one England had seen, but, for some odd reason, this one was different. He didn’t really want to read into that.

France shook his head slightly, breathing a laugh as he did so, “You say that, but I’ve never actually seen you satisfied with not understanding anything.”

“Well I’ll admit I can be a tad too persistent in some of my inquiries, but if the quest for knowledge is truly a sin, I pray God to strike me down here.”

France shrugged, “It’s part of your charm.”

Their eyes went wide nearly in unison, both apparently equally shocked by France’s words.

France seemed to catch up sooner than England though, because he began to laugh, high-pitched and obviously quite nervous, “I mean, euh, je te deteste, vraiment, mais, euh...juste que...” He took a deep, honestly shaky breath, trying to maintain some semblance of composure. “L’anglais...c'est très difficile, you see, and I...uh...les mots, the words, get confusing...et...”

France, through the middle of his rushed, broken statements, had begun gesturing rather frantically, and, England noticed, as France trailed off, the gestures grew withdrawn and self-conscious. France was...worried.

England also knew that France was fluent in English, had been for centuries now, and that he was quite eloquent and well-spoken when he needed to be, even in English. So it was _most_ likely that France had meant what he said, but hadn’t thought before he’d said it, and, judging by his response, he regretted it.

But...

France...thought he was charming? Or at least that parts of his personality were? That was...

That was different.

It felt...It honestly felt nice, to know someone, someone like _France_ , thought of England that way, to some extent.

No.

No, it didn’t feel _nice_ , what was he thinking? He was England, and this was France, and there was no charm, nor soft smiles, nor friendship, nor...whatever _this_ was between them. They were enemies.

Enemies who’d been allies briefly. Enemies who’d shared a bottle of wine. Enemies that had their quiet moments together but remained enemies nonetheless.

Besides...It wasn’t _right_.

He didn’t...

He wasn’t...

France wasn’t...

Was he?

He’d heard rumors...

Well, it didn’t matter regardless, even as a small, unknown voice in his head whispered that it did, that it really, really did, because he was England, and France was France.

There was nothing between them.

France was allowed to find certain traits charming and appealing in the people he surrounded himself with, it didn’t have to mean anything. It didn’t mean anything.

The poor man was still staring at him, terrified, looking vaguely ill and waiting for England to get his act together and attempt to deny this ever happened. Then they could go back to something more familiar, more consistent. Like despising each other. Or going to war.

 _That_ sounded nice. England _wanted_ that. A return to who they were before, a homecoming of a familiar, comforting dynamic. England wanted that.

Why did it sound like he was trying to convince himself of that?

He steeled himself, cleared his throat, “Understandable, it happens to the best of us.” He breathed deeply, “I’m quite sure that whatever it is you meant, it wasn’t that.”

England saw France smile again, relief making the other relax, rigid posture softening. In his eyes though, there was an emotion England couldn’t quite place, something that wasn’t relief, nor happiness, nor anger, nor true sadness, but an emotion that could have been somewhat melancholic. A trick of the light, perhaps?

“Oui, exactement.” He breathed, still smiling as he said, “It’s not my fault you created such a horribly complicated tongue.”

Ah, now _this_ was familiar territory.

England scoffed, “You’re one to talk, your words look on paper as though an illiterate peasant were given the alphabet and told to guess which letters go where.”

“Oh please,” France rolled his eyes, “At least _I’m_ somewhat phonetically consistent. _You_ just couldn’t decide between French and some amalgamation of Germanic tongues and instead took both. Your language is practically unholy, the Devil’s work.”

“Oh you’d know a lot about what’s unholy, given your Avignon Popes. And! _I_ wouldn’t have _any_ French in my language if it wasn’t for _your_ invasion!”

“You’re always so quick to bring up William! You should be _thanking_ me for making your language even _slightly_ pleasant to listen to!”

England narrowed his eyes, “I think you’re biased.”

“Maybe so,” France shrugged, “But I am right.”

England, for an inexplicable reason, found it awfully hard not to smile as he shook his head in exasperation. Their silence thereafter was startlingly comfortable, the quiet voice of the ocean once again rising to fill the space between them.

England closed his eyes and breathed in the salton scent that clung to the air around them.

“I’ve discovered a new wine in recent years.” France spoke softly.

“Oh?” England raised an eyebrow, opening his eyes and looking at France again.

“Well, _I_ didn’t discover it, but I know the man who did. It’s really quite spectacular.” With growing confidence, and in a subject he knew much about, France’s tone was certain and clear, even excited about the information he was sharing. “It’s _un vin blanc_ from Champagne, a sparkling wine created mostly by accident, but mon Dieu it is incredible. It is unlike anything I’ve ever had before.”

Now _that_ was intriguing indeed, “Is that right?”

“ _Oui_.” France said it with emphasis, then continued almost sheepishly, “I brought a bottle with me tonight, but, it is really more a celebratory beverage, so we may have to save it for next time.”

There were a lot of points in that statement that England wanted to bring up in question, like the fact that France had apparently brought _another_ bottle of wine to share with England, and when France implied, with a degree of certainty, that they would indeed meet again in this capacity, but he asked, “What would we have had to celebrate?” Because England couldn’t think of a single thing.

France looked at him strangely, like he was trying to figure something out, solve an equation that England couldn’t see, couldn’t decipher for himself, “Well, um, your successful revolution, of course. The name is fitting, it _was_ rather glorious; and relatively bloodless too, if you don’t count the wars. A difficult feat to accomplish.” France couldn’t seem to look him in the eye, instead flicking his gaze between the sky, the water, and their boats, “As a nation with plenty of revolutions already, I am continuously astounded by the ways in which you seem to carry your few off with such grace. Except for that Commonwealth period, of course.”

England laughed slightly at that before he could stop himself and, with no small degree of trepidation, he said, “...Thank you, France, that, means quite a bit from you.”

France grinned at him like he hung the sun in the sky. It was blinding.

“De rien, Angleterre.” He said, “Unfortunately, the mood is no longer right for celebration, I’m now not sure it ever was, but regardless, I have something to ask of you.”

“...What is it?”

“Don’t taste it, the wine that is, until we see each other again. I want to see your reaction first hand.”

England practically spluttered, “That–That’s quite a demand France! What if I am invited to a dinner, or a party, or...Well, I’d hardly say we have the kind of relationship that allows for these sorts of promises.”

France waved a hand dismissively, “I understand, Angleterre, I know you don’t think you’ll be able to hold off on trying _my_ amazing new wine, but if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you have an iron will. I believe you can do it.”

England couldn’t believe they were having this conversation, that he was allowing it. “That–That is _entirely_ besides the point–”

“I can see you’re apprehensive,” France _interrupted_ him, “So, I shall make this more appealing: I’ll _owe_ you.” He took a deep breath, “If you do this for me, I will do something for you, anything you want, within reason of course.”

Why would France promise such a thing?

“Why does this matter so much to you?”

France sighed, a full body sigh that ended with him drumming his fingers against his thighs. He looked at England, at his boat, at his own, out to the ocean, and back to England’s eyes, holding his gaze. “Call it an investment. I have a vested interest in the result.”

England convinced himself he didn’t know what France meant by that. It was a loaded gun, a Pandora’s Box, and England approached unknowns with caution or not at all. Here, he chose to feign ignorance. He believed it would save him a lot of trouble. “I can’t very well pass up an opportunity like that then.”

Again France smiled, lantern light illuminating him in a way that was admittedly quite flattering. Which was not a way in which he ever thought he’d be looking at France, but what was even stranger was that it didn’t feel...wrong. France, here in this light, surrounded by dark night and backdropped by stars, he was...Well, France was France. And England was England. There was nothing else there. There couldn’t be.

He should leave. He should go back home and try to forget these irregular ideas. He hadn’t been to Church in a couple weeks, he should start going again. It was...Thursday? Was it? He checked his watch, 1:34 in the morning, making it Friday.

He cleared his throat, “It’s, uh, quite late France, we should really get going.” He was running. He was running, and he knew it. England didn’t run. England stood his ground, against natives, and armies, and fleets, and armadas, and he didn’t _run_. But here, in the face of things he didn’t understand, things about France, things about himself, he ran.

France looked at him wryly, like he could read every thought going through England’s head, regarding him like his favorite book, the one he’d read a thousand times. The one he’d memorized.

“Of course Angleterre, I know you’re quite busy. I have things to attend to as well, including a king to advise, and a war to win.”

“I wouldn’t count on winning any wars, if I were you. You’ve made an enemy out of all of Europe.”

“Well it’s not the first time it has happened, and it certainly won’t be the last.” France winked at him. _Winked_ at him. “I trust you’ll keep our agreement then?”

“Only if you keep your end.” He replied, with a lot more confidence than he felt in the moment.

“Bien sûr, Angleterre. I hope to see you soon.” France said, looking for all the world as though he’d come away from this evening the undisputed victor, something England very much wanted to dispute.

He gathered his oars, preparing himself for the journey back as France did the same, looking to England to make the final call, to end their rendez-vous officially, to return them to what they were before, what they had always been, and what they will continue to be.

He breathed deeply, looked to the sea, the sky, the stars, in their unknown celestial observations, and back to France, “Au revoir, France.”

France grinned at him, eyes sparkling with the light of the stars themselves, “Au revoir, Angleterre.” And he rowed away.

England did the same.

Rowing back home, across cold, calm Channel waters, he felt for all the world as though he was leaving with more questions than answers, and that, perhaps, France really _had_ come out of this night holding victory over him. It didn’t feel as bad as he thought it would.

  


* * *

  


That night, he had the strangest dream. The events were vague and indecipherable, but he woke with the strongest impression that he’d been dreaming about France.

On Sunday, he went to Church.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and then england continued to deny his feelings for another 100 years whoop
> 
> oof the bois were not their smoothest this time around
> 
> le francais:  
> bonsoir: good evening  
> angleterre: that still means england  
> c'est stupide: it's stupid (but in the sexy french way)  
> l'anglais, c'est tres difficile: english, it's very difficult (god same)  
> les mots: the words  
> oui exatement: yes exactly  
> un vin blanc: a white wine  
> mon dieu: my god  
> de rien: you're welcome  
> bien sur: of course  
> au revoir: goodbye
> 
> that awkward moment when you're a thousand years old but still act like an angsty teen,, there's a reason this chapter isn't from France's perspective
> 
> so, yeah, its been like 2ish? months and i am so sorry this took me so long- ive been swamped with classes, helping a relative move, watching collgehumor's fantasy high, [insert additional excuses here], but im back now! and i will get more chapters out hopefully faster, i've already started on the next chap and i'm really excited abt the next 3 cause i get to talk about _Napoleonic France_ ahhhh i love him!! im such a big napoleon fan guys i literally own the napoleonic code (its dense af, not as interesting as it sounds tbh, just civil law) anyways yeah next chap is 1804 in case you hadn't guessed lmao

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for actually reading this overly long,,, thing??


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